


The Good Samaritan

by lysanatt



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Actor!RPF, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a group of religious extremists decides to interfere, voicing their dislike of Misha at a Supernatural convention, Misha is hit harder by the hatred than Jensen thought he would be. H/C</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Samaritan

**Author's Note:**

> For anonymous who wanted a fic in which "Misha is booed or something of that kind in a convention, and Jensen stands up for him... then later that night Jensen tells Misha how much of a good person he is, and how he doesn't deserve the hate."

**The Good Samaritan**

"That's enough!" Jensen gets up from the chair, looking at the small group in the far corner of the hall. "I think you might have heard this one before: you should show him some respect." Jensen's face is hard and cold; he can feel his Dean persona lurking below the surface, all protective and ready to fight for what he loves, or in this case, _whom_. "I'm sorry. I think the rest of you... y'all understand why we cut this short." Jensen looks at his watch. It's only a few minutes, but he doesn't like cheating the fans of as much as a second; they are far too supportive and caring to deserve that. Apart from the few assholes that insist on ruining it for all of them, actors and fans alike. 

Jensen puts down the microphone before he holds his hand out for Misha to take. Misha's face is strangely blank, as if he doesn't understand. Too much Cas, too little Misha. "Come on, Mish." Jensen doesn't hesitate, but pulls Misha with him from the stage, accompanied by the applause from their faithful followers. 

Clif steps in, his broad shoulders taking up much of the space in the narrow, sweat-smelling corridor behind the stage. "I'll make sure they're gone."

"Thanks, Clif." Jensen pats Clif on the shoulder. It shouldn't be necessary, neither having a bodyguard, nor have said bodyguard throwing out a few idiots whose agenda Jensen really doesn't comprehend. 

Misha is still quiet, as if the ground he's standing on has been removed too suddenly, leaving him hanging in a state of baffled surprise.

"It happens," Jensen says. They both know it does. Fans, in Jensen's opinion, are gold. Except for that zero point one part of them that aren't. Even haters usually keep their hate on the Internet, which is why Jensen never uses social media. He doesn't want to encounter it. What he does want, though, is Misha. And tonight Misha needs him. "Let's go back to the green room," Jensen suggests, not expecting a reply. He doesn't wait for Clif. Jensen can manage any fan standing in his way, angry and upset as he is. Not that he think that more fans will bother them. The few that might... oh, they've already voiced their opinion for the last time in Jensen's and Misha's presence, Clif and the hotel's security will see to that. 

Misha sighs tiredly. "There are times when I wonder if this is worth it," he says, weighed down by the encounter with annoying, rude questions, and half-shouted offensive and derogatory words. "Did you know that in the Egyptian mythology the way to move freely through the underworld was to be able to say at the entrance, _I made no man cry_?"

Jensen knows it's Misha's way of doubting himself, becoming quiet and philosophical, withdrawing from the world into his own little universe. It happens rarely, but Jensen knows it when he sees it. "You want to be alone? Maybe the green room isn't such a good idea?"

Misha looks up at him, puppy-eyed, innocent. Hurt. "Yeah. Maybe later."

No more questions asked, Jensen accompanies Misha to their room twenty floors up, and leaves him at the door. "I'll be back in an hour," Jensen says, stroking Misha's hand for goodbye.

\- 0 -

When Jensen returns, Misha is asleep, curled up like a tiny puppy, duvet wrapped around him as if he tried to make a nest for himself. Turning on one lamp, enough to light up the room with a dim, golden light, Jensen sits down on the bedside, pulling off his boots. He's glad that Clif got a hold of the obnoxious fans—people who turned out not to be fans at all when Clif investigated. Some religious nutcases that didn't like Misha's status as a leader of his own little congregation had decided to go voice their opinion on Misha, his charity, and last but not least, his relationship with Jensen. They are a minority, luckily. Half a million fanboys and girls can't be wrong: Misha is worth following. The right-wing Baptist factions—so far out that there is only the Westboro Baptist Church to stop them from going over the edge—they certainly leave a lot to be desired when it comes to kindness, actively showing some true Christian spirit, in Jensen's opinion.

They survived coming out of closet, Misha and he, taking the punches it gave together. But this is different. This is a personal attack on Misha, and it hit, bullseye. Usually Misha would just shrug and laugh it off, utterly indifferent to what small-minded people such as right wing extremists might think about him. But today, aiming for Misha, targeting him at a convention, the one place where he feels most loved and comfortable, the place and space where they both feel encased in warmth and love from the Supernatural family? Yeah, that hurt. It's Misha's safe place. Now intruders made it unsafe. Unsafe for Misha, unsafe for the dedicated fans, and unsafe for Jensen. Jensen _knows_ how important it is to Misha that he, too, feels comfortable when they are in public. They both know that today is a setback because Jensen is hurt too.

Jensen sits quietly on the bed until Misha stirs. 

"Jen?"

"Mmm?" Jensen reaches out, resting a hand on what might be Misha's shoulder, his body buried under comforters and blankets.

"The divine being out there, somewhere in the universe-" Misha shifts, peeking out from his nest, "to that being, if there is one, does it matter what you call yourself as long as the dish you serve is love?"

Jensen looks down at his man. "You know it doesn't. Isn't it a question about loving thy neighbor? I mean, more than what you call yourself?" Jensen asks. "I mean... the Bible... when the priest and the Levite pass by a robbed man without doing anything for him, but the Samaritan does... Who's the Christian between them? Do you think that people you help... that they see anything but care and love in what you do? Isn't that what matters? Being good?"

"Not to everybody." Misha crabs his way out from the pile of linen. "Clearly not." He makes his way to lie with his head on Jensen's chest, eyes closed and one hand clutching at Jensen's shirt. 

Jensen smiles. "It does to me." And it does. Misha has been good for him in so many ways, and even if his beloved Mish had done nothing but that little corner of good, Jensen can't help admiring the man that was his friend first, a friend who helped him grow. "I adore you," he tells Misha, stroking his cheek. "And so does all the people who follow you. Those assholes today... they don't see how much goodness you have in you, enough for thousands and thousands of us. They're trying to patent charity and kindness. That's what annoys them, that you won't conform to their particular brand of normalcy, doing good the way you want to do it."

"There's a far stretch from Misha to Messiah," Misha says. He opens his eyes. "Maybe that's what they forget? That I'm human. Standard variety, no angel wings."

Jensen smiles. No, Misha certainly is no guru or Messiah, and he doesn't want to be, despite all his bullshit about world domination. Misha wants to change the world, and he does. For so many people all over the globe. 

For Jensen. His world has changed too, it is here now, with Misha.

Jensen rubs Misha's back gently, between the shoulder blades, as he bends down to kiss Misha gently on the lips. "I think I can see them at times, your wings," he whispers as he kisses Misha again. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."


End file.
